It was this past St. Patty’s Day when I realized just how destructive the “M” word could be. It seems unobtrusive, when examined academically. We say it in the right context, and it feels intellectual. But bring it up casually, almost cavalierly, and it hits home. Hard.
Our party was, if not rip-roaring, at least pleasantly buzzing with lively conversation and green beer. All young professionals (or so we like to think of ourselves, with only a few of the participants still living with our parents), we were witty, dapper, and opinionated. We relished a well timed quotation. We discussed video game graphics, the substandard nature of pop music, and, of course, the food.
No one’s plates were piled, exactly. We were grazing, if you will. A piece of bread here. A chunk of roasted pork there. A sip of punch a la green food coloring. A cookie. And then another cookie. And then another cookie.
That’s when it happened. Our twenty-something egos were punched so forcefully in the stomach that it’s a wonder no one graced the beige carpet with emerald vomit.
“God, it’s going to suck when our metabolisms slow down.”